


bitter green

by painting



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adoring Fans, Common Cold, Fever, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painting/pseuds/painting
Summary: Geralt says, "I'm leaving. You're not coming."It's not the first time he's barred Jaskier from attending one of his little witcher adventures, but it's certainly been a while since he's tried. Unless one of Geralt's hunting trips is particularly risky or Jaskier has business in another direction, the two of them no longer part often. It's been a while since one of them has been unable to accompany the other toward a location of interest. The prospect of anything changing now has Jaskier rather curious, so he says, "You're just full of games tonight, aren't you? Obviously you don't mean that.""You've been sick," Geralt says. "It's in the mountains. Cold's not good for you.""It's fine for me. A little fresh air," Jaskier says, musing. "There's no reason to separate now."
Comments: 30
Kudos: 90





	1. pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can't beat em join em :)

Jaskier is reveling in the nonsense that rapidly unfurled around him at the very moment that the tavern's smitten patrons realized he'd been carrying out a generous performance while fighting through the worst of a cold.

To his own credit, the bard's decades of practice and naturally buoyant stage presence carried him through the first half of his performance. This village holds him in high regard, clearly, its residents greeting him with enthusiastic familiarity and filling the tavern to its walls long before his show was even scheduled to begin. They watched him raptly, participated eagerly when prompted, and shoved at each other for the chance to confront him with praises during his breaks. Geralt had been surprised at the lack of attention they'd been paying to his physical state compared to his celebrity, as his poorly indisposition remained fairly obvious despite his efforts. The pinkened tinge around the edges of his features and escalating rasp in his voice balanced out the illusion of energy he was undoubtedly pushing himself to project.

It was only after a song during which he'd interrupted his own lyrics to clear his throat -- several times -- and finally a familiar, exuberant pair of sneezes once he'd finished the following ballad -- that his audience snapped partially out of their rose-colored daftness to place two and two together. Jaskier had then confirmed any suspicions by pardoning himself, thanking his company for their blessings, and contritely announcing his affliction.

It took only this brief disclosure for his adorers to jump at the chance to begin a conversation with their beloved headliner.

"For how long have you been unwell?" asked a barmaid up front, throwing her voice needlessly. 

Three days, Geralt didn't answer, memories echoing freshly in his head. The furling eyebrows as Jaskier swallowed, his periodic sniffling, and the intermittent fading of his voice had only recently evolved into the externalized expression of the illness: a stubborn, dry cough, his eyes and nose leaking, and the frequent, erratic instances of sneezing that he'd complained of relentlessly, likely just for something to talk about. It didn't seem to be bothering him enough to cease his characteristic stream of chatter.

"Oh, not very long!" answered Jaskier instead from the opposite side of the room, up in front surrounded by the venue's ornamental firelight. He waved a hand dismissively, body language discouraging the others from pressing the topic further, but his intonation was keen and excitable. "I've only just reached the throes of it tonight, I'm afraid."

And it's showing in his consonants. Prominently. It's a wonder nobody noticed sooner, though perhaps Jaskier's articulation had been blurred by song enough to disguise the softened, pinched caliber of his speech.

He'd been doing his best not to seem bothered by it. Before Jaskier's fingers could graze the strings leading up to his next track, a woman placed along the side of the room had decided to speak up and distract him.

"You must be exhausted!" she gushed, voice loud and high.

"The poor thing," agreed a companion sitting next to her, elbows on the table with her head in her palms, awestruck regardless of the circumstance. "I suppose nobody's immune to the chill of winter."

In the dark, Geralt could hardly help the twitch of his chest as he scoffed. The bard had kept up with Roach just fine.

Correspondingly, and perhaps in an act of martyrdom, Jaskier denied experiencing any fatigue and insisted on playing through to the end of his set. The continuous singing and playing and jumping around, throwing his voice and exuding confidence, and sweating through his wool and linens had no doubt exacerbated his the worst of his symptoms. 

Geralt, meanwhile, maintained his space in the back of the tavern, unenthused by the idea of playing question-and-answer with civilians who've memorized Jaskier's tales of his travels. Although backwater townsmen tended far more toward fair and kind than noblemen, he knew better than to call attention to himself, especially as a protagonist of the tales being presented before him.

Looking back, Geralt understands that he could have easily spent the night by himself in their room upstairs. He isn't entirely sure why he felt so uncomfortable by the thought of it, ordinarily repelled by the very same crowds and commotion that Jaskier seemed to thrive on. His companion's tendency toward friendliness combined with his momentarily dulled senses put him at risk of trouble, not to mention the bard's tendency toward trouble in general, and perhaps it seemed easier to keep watch on the sidelines than be bothered with the cleanup later.

Probably for the better, Geralt realizes in the present, as he experiences a pang of something unpleasant in his gut as a surge of young women swarms Jaskier with outstretched arms, eager to palm his face in search of fever.

In response, Jaskier says something to them with a bright smile, too charming for his own good. It's inaudible through the resumed noisiness of the tavern, even to the enhanced senses of a witcher, but they laugh along with him and one of them rubs his arm before guiding the bard to a table near the middle of the room. It places the lot close enough for Geralt to eavesdrop without difficulty.

"You did such a lovely job," he hears her say as they sit down. A stone mug of ale is passed to the guest of honor. "I never would have guessed you weren't feeling well."

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier leans into her touch and engages the table in conversation. Geralt is used to observing the bard in his element, tactile and extroverted, but the routine is odd this time. It's worse, somehow; tight and wearisome. He likens it to the feeling of walking from the stable to his quarters without Roach, feeling an empty spot next to him even with the knowledge that its rightful inhabitant is accessible and closeby.

But Geralt leaves it alone, seeing the expression of solace immersing Jaskier's features and realizing that look has been missing for days, replaced by the squint-and-grimace of an aching head and stinging throat. This is the first time they've stopped anywhere aside from a camp since he'd started getting sick, and physical touch doesn't often occur between the two of them unless they're both asleep or it's been initiated by Jaskier himself. Geralt has been around long enough to understand that it doesn't feel the same as someone else extending their own closeness for him to consume.

It's better that Jaskier gets his fill now from someone more adept to provide it to him, lest it become Geralt's problem in the future.

He allows Jaskier his indulgences long enough for him to finish three drinks and receive at least a dozen handkerchiefs from his lovestruck admirers, likely not very expensive but appreciated by the bard nonetheless. Despite the advanced state of his own hearing, Geralt realizes how different Jaskier sounds from far away, the familiar sounds of his infirm suddenly less defined and explicit. Still recognizable, all the same, but something feels misaligned. He wonders whether Jaskier feels better when the patron on his right thumps his back while he coughs, because it seems to halt each preceding fit in its tracks.

Not that the mead isn't doing the trick as well. Jaskier had expressed enthusiasm about _that_ when they'd arrived, predicting to Geralt that it'd work in his favor as the honey soothed his throat and the alcohol rendered the remainder of his symptoms less bothersome. Geralt hadn't said much to refute it.

Geralt prioritizes his observation enough to ignore the man approaching him, at first, until the man speaks in demand of his attention.

"The bard's own White Wolf," he says. "Yes? Am I right?"

The possessive stirs Geralt and he responds, at first, by meeting his visitor's gaze. He holds it for a moment before replying, "Must've just heard the concert."

"I missed the show, unfortunately," the man says. He's got dirt on his cheeks and under his nails, but his clothes look unworn and crisp in their quality. 

"I haven't memorized the lyrics," Geralt says.

"We've been lucky enough for local bards to have performed his ballads enough for the rest of us to learn the tales," the man clarifies. "But never from the composer himself. I'm hoping he'll be performing an encore tomorrow for those of us who were regrettably preoccupied tonight."

"He won't be," Geralt promises flatly. "He's ill."

The man flinches backwards, features scrunching in benign confusion. "He looks all right from here."

Geralt's eyes follow his visitor's, landing on a lively scene in which Jaskier has his arm around one of his callers from before as she whispers something in his ear. He looks delighted, if not worn out, his cheeks ruddy from alcohol and possibly even a developing fever, and shadowed creases under his eyes showcasing swollen sinuses. Geralt figures the person standing next to him can read Jaskier's body language and nothing else, as a layman's eyesight likely isn't fruitful enough to notice the details.

"Tell me then, Geralt of Rivia," the man says with confidence, "what are you insisting is wrong with him?"

"There's no balance in your using my full name before telling me yours," Geralt says. Ordinarily, he'd be unconcerned, but the man -- and his entire village -- exhibiting such an obsession with the bard has amplified his vigilance.

"Forgive me," the man says. "It's Miljan."

Geralt nods upward and grunts.

"Well?" Miljan says.

Without taking his eyes off of Jaskier's table, Geralt adheres to his practiced stoicism and discloses the truth.

"It's the thick of a cold."

Regarding it with any sort of importance sounds mostly ludicrous, but he doubts it'd be smart to describe the extent of Jaskier's physical history to a fan -- specifically including a recount of the couple of times that Jaskier's respiratory grievances advanced to something that required a visit to a healer instead of a few days of hot drinks and rest. The less energy he uses now, the sooner it'll stop being everyone's problem.

Geralt feels a surge of Miljan's body heat as he leans in closer. "You really do care about him as much as he says you do," he assumes, his tone absent of any teasing. "It's awfully kind of you to look out for his health like that. I'm sure he'll be right as rain in no time."

"Assuming he doesn't do anything stupid," Geralt says.

"What," Miljin says in jest, "an artist prone to mischief? Don't be ridiculous."

Geralt huffs and lets the ghost of a grin drag at the corner of his mouth.

It fades as he watches Jaskier sneeze again -- and again -- and _again_ into waiting palms before the maiden rubs his back and watches him shake his head and clean himself up. Simultaneously, Miljan guides the conversation toward pragmatism.

"You know, his songs have given you great acclaim," is his caveat.

"That's one way to put it," Geralt replies. He can't say he's ungrateful, despite his discomfort with the spotlight; as the popularity of Jaskier's praises of the witcher rises, his reception of disdain from the townspeople seems to fall. Not entirely, of course, but he's still getting used to it regardless.

"Well, if you don't mind providing our town with a little demonstration," Miljan continues, "then I'd like to extend my coin in request of your services."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want the people in this room to know the truth. i spent a very very long time researching medieval medicine and the history of ways humankind categorized my favorite group of mild respiratory symptoms, then found out that they didn't refer to a cold as such until the 1600s. dismal. i agonized over what to call it instead because i love historical accuracy despite being too dumb to ever major in history, but then realized that the series uses a basic translation of whatever words we use today anyway, AND it's a different universe in the first place, so if there's magic then there can be advanced definitions of colds about three hundred years too early. and that's that.
> 
> P.S. don't worry they will touch :) just give me a sec


	2. moss

Geralt's touch is severely distinguishable from that of Jaskier's existing company, a brawny clap on the side of his arm to contrast with the delicate stroking and squeezing and holding that he's been lovingly fed all night. The townswomen's birdlike voices dance along his ears like wind chimes, pleasantly shrill in comparison to the rumbling he's grown used to -- from his travel companion, to be specific, not from the depths of his chest. Yet.

He responds to it with priority, consistent in his use of prerogative even through the thick drift of spirits. While Jaskier knows it's Geralt behind him without having to look, he does look anyway and the pressure in his face shifts as he cranes his neck and tilts his head in order to make eye contact. Jaskier imagines that his own inviting stare must look glassy and smudged, but the two of them connect regardless.

Jaskier extends an arm to grab his friend and pull him closer. Geralt tenses, but then he grabs Jaskier back.

Next, in a blur of interrupted introduction and the tugging of his sleeve, Jaskier's party abruptly ends. Geralt is cordial but looking troubled, and while he doesn't insist that Jaskier exit the tavern along with him, Jaskier follows along anyway. As expected, Geralt reacts minimally to Jaskier's inarticulate prompting that he explain himself, and he grips Jaskier's arm along with the textured fabric of his clothes as they leave. Jaskier feels guided rather than dragged. Given his heavy head and cloudy gaze, it feels nice not having to remember where he's going. 

He supposes he's used to Geralt leading the way. Jaskier holds onto him, too, though not because he's at risk of falling behind.

They get to their room, somehow. Jaskier thinks it's next door to the tavern, but he can't really remember; the moments before his performance feel as though they were part of a day previous. Perhaps they were. He hasn't kept track of how long it's been since they lost sunlight.

"You know, you could have joined us at the table, Geralt, instead of staring all night like a knight preparing for arrest," Jaskier tells him as he hangs up his instrument so he can strip away the stiffness of his matching overgarments, their pockets lovingly flooded with gifts. "Just about e _hhhhh_ veryone was asking after you--"

He rushes the end of his sentence to buckle into a sneeze that sends a chill down his spine, the everlasting drone of sparkling inside of his face having reached its recurring peak. It's like a champagne that never goes flat, the carbonation replenishing itself quickly enough for him to do it again before it returns back to its maddening baseline. It continues to strike without warning, as its state of warning has been constant for two days now with few signs of slowing.

"I wasn't staring," Geralt refutes in lieu of a blessing as the poet recovers. Jaskier honestly would laugh at the absurdity, wondering why Geralt even bothers with statements like that, especially when he presents them so grimly, but he needs to blow his nose first. The plight of having to continuously manage a terrible head cold in an esteemed company had been taking its toll, he realizes at his breaking point, as dabbing underneath his septum and sniffling all evening long had done little to provide him much relief.

He turns away regardless as he buries his face into a crisp and patterned cloth given to him by a darling newlywed just moments ago, maintaining the habit of good manners even in the impolite company of a witcher. At least his hackles have dropped enough for him to do it at all, and perhaps this is more dignified overall than sniffling all though the night would be.

When he's halfway finished, Jaskier comes up for air and says, "Oh, no, pardon me, then; of course you weren't. Just daydreaming as usual, were you? Actually, I remember you speaking to that one fellow, the man with the nice green jacket. Awfully ornate. He did have the hands of a farmer, though. What did he want?"

Geralt watches as Jaskier resumes his task, then continues with his stare as Jaskier folds it up with the rest of his things and sets them aside with their shared pile of belongings waiting to be washed. The innkeeper was sweet and will probably do it tomorrow. 

Geralt sheds his armor in kind. He seems to have given up denying the threat of jealousy.

"All right, come on. If you're going to pull me away from such a lively little gathering the least you could do is spend some-- what are you doing? Geralt?"

The back of the other man's palm rests on the whole of Jaskier's cheek just before he presses down firmly with the gentleness Geralt likes to pretend a witcher couldn't possess. He holds it there for a moment before saying, "You're drunk."

"Is that all?" Jaskier rolls his eyes, exasperation seizing the bulk of his confusion. "Of course I'm _drunk,_ Geralt. How else do you expect me to deal with this damn--"

"I mean you don't have a fever," Geralt says abruptly, frustrated. Usually Jaskier's better at reading between the lines but, well, there are some extenuating circumstances at play tonight.

Jaskier shrugs and says, "I suppose I don't. Anything else? No? Okay, wonderful. Great. Come and lie down, nurse witcher."

Geralt does, but not before he practically caresses Jaskier's other cheek. The roughness of his skin rasps against the stubble there and Geralt hums something that Jaskier can't interpret. He doesn't move away when Jaskier gracelessly pours his own body against him on the mattress, similarly to the way he didn't disagree when Jaskier had requested the innkeeper give them a room with one bed instead of two. They haven't had sex or anything of the sort since before Jaskier got sick, but he figures there's no use in breaking a perfectly good habit.

Eventually, Jaskier discovers it's more comfortable to sleep facing away from his companion because he's only able to breathe through one side of his face -- the other half is blocked up completely. He turns over and keeps Geralt's arm around him while he flutters into a dream he won't remember.

It doesn't last all night. Jaskier wakes up again before sunrise, his throat dry and head aching as his eyes sting and struggle to adjust to the dark. Geralt is awake next to him with his posture straight and tense, likely sitting up with his back against the headboard. His arm is curled around Jaskier exactly where he'd left it.

Jaskier exhales heavily and turns around, lifting Geralt's arm so that he can readjust and then dropping it down again to secure himself. Geralt cups his hand around Jaskier's shoulder, which he interprets as the witcher either offering comfort or saying hello.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Jaskier asks. Though it hasn't been so much of a problem lately, Jaskier remembers that Geralt is prone to insomnia and allows a haze of worry to flicker in his gut as the suspicion of its return arises. The last thing he wants is to be a contributor. "Are you all right?"

Geralt turns to look at him and says, "Yeah."

Jaskier closes his eyes and says, "Okay." 

He isn't certain of why he's woken up, himself. He hadn't been startled and nothing seems to have changed, so he chalks it up to bad luck or the restlessness of infirm. He still feels just as dreadful as he had before he went to bed, aside from his being regrettably less sober. Small losses like this feel monumental while one is already sick already at a loss of so many other things, he supposes.

"You were snoring," Geralt says. It's not accusatory, so Jaskier holds off on indulging in any guilt.

"Well, I'm not surprised," he answers with a flimsy scoff, perturbed by the novel unevenness of his own voice. Maybe that was it. He dislikes not sounding like himself, his voice a croaking, congested whisper, demolished by sleep and dry atmosphere and illness. "I'm not getting any _air._ Is it keeping you up?"

"No," Geralt says. His brows lift and his gaze becomes intense and fluid like he's searching for something in Jaskier's own.

"Oh, would you relax," Jaskier says. He lies back to cut the eye contact, but the change in position makes him cough. It's dry and irritated and thankfully not all too strong, but he brings his arm up to cover his mouth anyway. "Everything's fine."

"I'm not worried," Geralt says. It sounds like a good joke.

"Yes, all right. Let's try again. Good night, Geralt."

Jaskier pushes down on Geralt's shoulder and Geralt lowers himself so Jaskier can burrow into the corner space between Geralt's neck and collarbone. Maybe sleeping with his face pressed to someone else will work the second time, when he's closer to the pull of sleep and a little less dizzy from alcohol.

He feels the reverberation in Geralt's throat when he says, "The man at the tavern. Miljan."

"What," Jaskier mumbles.

"You spoke of him earlier," Geralt clarifies. Jaskier doesn't remember a Miljan, but he supposes he's glad Geralt was able to make a friend.

"So you do want to chat after all," Jaskier says. He pillows his cheek on top of Geralt's skin and clears his throat in hopes that it all might make him sound sharper, but all that does is ignite a scraping pain with and then chill his face with exposure. "Ow. _Ow._ Afraid I won't be much of an asset at the moment," he adds mournfully.

"Good one," Geralt says.

In offense, Jaskier gasps by reflex. The air on his windpipe brings the cough back and he sits up to try and placate his lungs before it evolves into a whole string of them. Geralt moves his hand upward to rest on Jaskier's back as it twitches.

The fit passes quickly. Jaskier grabs Geralt's hand and pulls on it to wrap his arm back around as he lays back down, settling. It hadn't felt quite right to be sitting up, his head swimming dizzily with congestion and the radiance of strong alcohol.

"Jaskier?" Geralt asks.

"I'm fine. That one's entirely on you for trying to be a comedian," Jaskier says, voice turbulent as his disorderly chest comes to roost. "What about our friend Miljan?"

Geralt takes a moment to respond. 

The room is too quiet, but the stinging and aching of Jaskier's vocal cords has him waiting without intervention. He still feels like he needs to cough, but he does a good job at staving that off by clenching his muscles and holding his breath. At long last, Geralt finally comes through. 

"He commissioned me," is what he says.

"It's about time," Jaskier replies. Geralt grunts at him uselessly. "It's been weeks since you've had any work. You've been acting acting like you're so _bored_ of everything, though I can't imagine how, with all the city has to offer. Maybe a job will set you straight, don't you think? Clear your head a little."

"Maybe."

"I think so. It usually does." Jaskier stirs and attempts with futility to breathe through his nose. It feels tight and awful, and he blinks hard against the constriction. "What time do we leave?"

Geralt says, "I'm leaving. You're not coming."

It's not the first time he's barred Jaskier from attending one of his little witcher adventures, but it's certainly been a while since he's tried. Unless one of Geralt's hunting trips is particularly risky or Jaskier has business in another direction, the two of them no longer part often. It's been a while since one of them has been unable to accompany the other toward a location of interest. The prospect of anything changing now has Jaskier rather curious, so he says, "You're just full of games tonight, aren't you? Obviously you don't mean that."

"You've been sick," Geralt says. "It's in the mountains. Cold's not good for you."

"It's fine for me. A little fresh air," Jaskier says, musing. "There's no reason to separate now. And who could imagine better inspiration than a frosted crown of--"

"I'm going by myself," Geralt says. Jaskier's head falls as Geralt exhales hugely. "You can stay here. Recover. Get your bearings."

"Ugh. Then _I'll_ be bored," Jaskier says. "As much fun as I've had _tonight,_ a town like this isn't necessary a conductive environment to writing, Geralt, I'll go stale."

Geralt doesn't say anything to that.

"You know I can just follow you anyway."

Nor that.

Jaskier wishes his throat felt better.

Eventually, though, Geralt does speak up again. The grate of his voice sounds deeper with Jaskier's ear pressed so close.

"We can find a healer tomorrow," he says.

"A healer?" Jaskier says. "For what, the sniffles?"

"They say you can go, then I won't stop you."

"As if you'd ever stop me anyway. You're all talk, you big, mean gatekeeper."

"What's that saying?" Geralt squeezes Jaskier's shoulder firmly, then rubs his hand down the side of his arm. "'Stubbornness is the mask of fools?'"

"'Not worried,' he says! Do you remember that? You saying you aren't concerned about my health at all. Well, do you remember?"

"First thing tomorrow," Geralt murmurs. His hand travels up and down again as he releases a vocal sigh and something simmers in his muscles, sinking the both of them further into the mattress as Jaskier feels the rush of warm air from his lungs. He hums. "Go to sleep, Jaskier."

Jaskier is tired enough to give into Geralt's request for conclusion. As he does, the back of his mind only hopes that Geralt is able to follow in his footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying not to have another episode where i plan on a fic being just a couple of chapters and end up with a 30k+ mini novella. but we can't always have what we want, can we? it's the exact one year anniversary of the last time so we'll all go along with this one together


End file.
